Stories of her Broken Mask

Chapter 1

Young years, my heart constantly questioned everything: Why the dull black oval clock within my room would consistently burden the ears with second accurate ticking. Or why I never fancied the color grey, nor why any human could ever be fond of that selfish color. Even theories boggled my mind:

"Can people actually hear what I am saying? Or do they read lips really well?"

"Are vegetables and fruits editable to those who don't like them? Or do they avoid them because they are actually toxic to their bellies?"

The most mind boggling thing, that always puzzled me was the height I had acquired over the course of only five years. Fifty inches was my height, around four foot and an inch where most girls could only dream of hitting a height of my stature. My body gained attention of so many strangers forcing discomfort with myself. What made the human race so interested in a tall five year old girl with a long framed face, long multi toned hair and peach colored eyes? In that same way, I realize now I somewhat answered the question stated; In other words I was different, faintly unique. That is where my origin derived, for the complexity that was the artistically crafted child named Monique.

Second born of the Viva family unto Marilyn and Dean Viva. Their blessed first born son, Clyde, now had a forever friend to cherish life with. At least that was what our positive minds lead us all to believe.

Reality was never a word that involved myself as a youth. A girl who had the stars in her eyes before night even fell. Bold myths, invented creatures that I believed to be non fiction. Spoke stories and wild tales that would entice even adults around me for a spiel. Friends always pried out of me wonderful tales of the limitless world that I dreamed with eyes wide open. Nonetheless worrying my parents with no end if I would stay in my world. Fearful I would never grow up and evolve to new levels within logic and actual reason. Never to peep about the world I saw in a negative aspect for they adored my innocence, yet kept the general idea of maturity one day rotating within their fixated minds.

Growing into my position of my fifth year I tended to side with my father, Dean. A clean trimmed man of neatly positioned almond hair; combed and placed with a smooth part to the left side of his head. Face as wonderfully sculpted like a famous sculpture pressed by Michelangelo himself. Eyes of a light amber pristine tint with the suns smile in his very lively oculi. Looking back, I never found myself worthy of him being my father. This man was a heartwarming man that always enjoyed teaching my brother and I the tiniest things, just to impress my mother.

Mom was a woman of strict order and a tender heart. I always showed her my affection yet her business with household duties left me a bit in the dark. Hair was a cherry wood color, cut to her shoulders with a red bandana that shoved her bangs out of her aquamarine iris'. A woman of natural looks yet with her personality, I never understood how father fell for her. Constantly love prevailed and reminding me, no matter what harsh words or actions she would express, he loved her. For she was the woman that managed to get fooled by the man who could "talk his way into getting her to love him." At the very least my father would say stuff to swindle my apparent unaware mother. Our household was one in which was always flooded with immature jokes between the parents, showing their loving compassion for one another; Well, more like on my mothers better mood days. Most of the days I recall seeing her she implied her stressed out nature to everything. Yelling from her vocal chords were heard from every corner of every angle of the entire house. No specific reason as to why she was always blaring her words when the topic was usually over mild issues,

"Monique... how dare you forget to water the garden! I specifically told you to do so!"

"What are these papers for Monique...?!"

"Monique! You are old enough to clean the bathroom! Stop making your brother do more work!"

"Monique stop arguing with me! I swear you have no respect for me! I cook, clean, do laundry and dust this whole place. As for this family, I feel as if I constantly slave while you others laugh in your ignorance and take advantage of this tempered old woman. Feeling death is finding it way to my disrespected... - well- body! No more out of me! No more!" She would seasonally shout at I or my perturbed father and irked brother. Anger of her standard was a forest fire; ripping down the elderly trees of wisdom as well as good judgement, leaving them in useless piles of mental agony.